Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Friday, December 23, 2005

Unfortunate Moments of My Life #3195

Let's finish this year on a personal high, shall we?

I was sitting with my legs stretched out before me, crossed at the ankles, trying to look relaxed by casually glancing around the foyer. Not much to see - it was typically featureless, large, garish posters hiding bland concrete with messages of 'brand values' and 'marketing communication'.

The receptionist saw me looking around and caught my eye. "He won't be long," she said, and smiled the generic disarming grin. It didn?t really make me feel any better.

I smiled back, nodding my understanding. I was nervous as fuck - this was going to be a big meeting. I subconsciously shuffled my notes and tried to relax. Breathe in, breathe out, think of kittens, think of everyone in their underwear.

Including that gentleman opposite me. Well, hello, young fellow-me-lad... I didn't notice you before. You're a bit of a catch, aren't you? Swarthy without looking too rough. And lovely green eyes...

Uh-oh. Lovely eyes that are looking at me. Quick, bury your head in your meeting notes. Pretend to care about repagination and gutters and those sorts of things.

Quick glance. Oh. He's still looking at me.

Actually, he was looking at my crotch

Well! Excuse me. I'm a married man! I can't be doing with any of that. It's fine for me to look, but not for them to reciprocate - that's just not done. So I shuffled my paper and turned away slightly in disgust.

I momentarily glanced back over my notes a minute later. He was looking slightly confused and now reading the paper. Well, I don?t blame him for looking initially - I did look utterly fabulous today. I cut a good figure with a nice shirt on, let me tell you.

"Mr Binding?" asked someone from across the room. I got up, removed my gloves, and went to shake their hand. But, just to be kind, I gave the gentleman opposite me a nice smile. It's always good to return attention. 'Gay It Forward' as it where.

He opened his mouth to say something, but I'd whirled off.

It was two hours into my meeting did I realise he wanted to tell me my flies were gaping open.

And a merry Christmas to all of you at home. See you all in the New Year.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

A Squirt And A Wipe

In a fit of pique, our cleaner resigned a week or two ago. It was after a silly run-in about her seemingly spending most of her employment locked in the bathroom and sniffing the Toilet Duck.

Still, rather generously, she did offer a replacement: another Polish lady of her acquaintance. We agreed because, frankly, she couldn't be any worse than old Paulina the Cleaner, who we'd only employed because her name rhymed with her vocation anyway.

But the new girl isn't rubbish. She's marvellous. All of a sudden, surfaces we never knew we had are gleaming, the bathroom is spotless, and the dust-bunnies look like they've just been given myxomatosis.

"I clean good?" she asked the comedy housemate in her charming broken English when they accidentally bumped into one another. He was rather taken aback - she was all spiked heels and glamour before she shirking off her fur and whipping out the hoover. It's just not what you expect to be brandishing a loo brush. And God only knows where she's getting the rest of her cash to live on, but I tell you the eagerness she got to her knees with the Mr Muscle gave the game away a little.

We love her. Everyone should have a glamorous cleaner. The only problem is she's a little too thorough. By the side of my bed, there's a cloth for any... let's call them spillages. A 'glop-mop', if you will. Each time I come back after her visits, I find the room spotless, everything on the floor tidied away, and the wanky-hankie folded miraculously at the foot of the bed.

Three things come to mind. The first is, of course, 'ew'. The second is that I hope she thoroughly washes her hands afterwards. And the third is, bugger me she must be strong. It took me a cricket bat and a lot of leverage before I could even make a dent in that encrusted rag, yet she practically gives it hospital corners.

Friday, December 16, 2005

Doing Reps

Oh yes. I've even been too busy to go to the gym. My biceps have now atrophied into looking like sparrow's knee-caps.

I was talking this over with my Comedy Housemate. He really doesn't really get the gym, and seems to feel that if he simply goes and breathes the same air a toned instructor he will get a six-pack. An osmosis Adonis, if you will.

"I don't see why I should pay all that money, and not get them to lift things for me," he said, his logic faultless. "Those instructors are doing nothing but shouting at people, and their muscles are obviously a lot better than mine - let them move the weights from one place to another."

It's a nice idea. Although he did come back rather proud of himself the other day: "I did two reps!" he cried with glee.

I congratulated him heartily. Until he said he never got their names, and it turned out he was talking about two sales reps he'd found in the sauna.


Hello hello. Yes, my apologies. I've actually been too busy to breathe over the last couple of days. You know that thing when you're working and you look at your watch and you realise it's later than you thought? I did that - and it was half-past Thursday.

In the meantime, have a picture of London's Christmas tree. As per some tradition, Norway each year sends over a spectacular fern for us to put up in Trafalgar Square in the very heart of the city.

God knows what we've done to piss them off, because this year they sent this twig.

The Christmas Twig

Look at it. Elisabeth Taylor is keeping it together better!

I tell you, we'd better not vote against them in the Eurovision Song Contest again. Otherwise next year we'll get a stick rolled in tumble-dryer fluff and spray-painted green.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Glitter for Brains at the Movies! War of the Worlds

We go so you don't have to!

Bit of a long time coming, this. Mostly because we didn't go to see it at the cinema in protest at the Cruise/Holmes comedy double-act that were doing the rounds at the time. Did you know the teachings of L. Ron Hubbard are buried in the desert in a mult-million dollar bunker? Oh, if only someone would do the same to those two. Anyway - on with the show!

RUN TITLES. War of the Worlds

TOM CRUISE arrives at his HOUSE, which is strewn with CAR PARTS, just as MIRANDA OTTO arrives to drop off his own two children.
All this shows that his character is COMPLETELY HETEROSEXUAL.

Come on in. Don't expect any food to be here, for this is a swinging heterosexual bachelor pad.

Right. My new husband and I are off to the end of the film to give you a hollow goal to head towards. Here are your two kids so you have something to emote against. See you later!

Hi dad! I'm as cute as a button!


Meanwhile a STORM is brewing. TOM CRUISE wanders out and sees LIGHTNING strike the same place TWENTY TIMES. Slowly, an ALIEN TRIPOD rises from the EARTH.

Those machines have been buried for many years. And something came down on the lightning.

He's remarkably well informed for someone who shifts crates for a living.

Something alien.

So it took them twenty attempts to get in there? Sheesh. Well, we?ve been like that with our house keys when drunk...

The ALIEN TRIPOD starts destroying EVERYTHING. PEOPLE run for THEIR LIVES. TOM CRUISE legs it, turns a corner and pauses for a moment to ADDRESS THE CAMERA.

Of course, this is just a fiction - a playlette, if you will. Aliens are really visiting us to be our friends and mentors, as per the teachings of L. Ron Hubbard. But lets play along, shall we?


Crash! Bang! Wallop! Gritty! Even more grit!

The movie becomes like SAVING PRIVATE RYAN, but with lots more HOODIE TOPS. TOM CRUISE eventually gets back to his CHILDREN.

We have to get out of here. NOW!

Playing the difficult teenager role, I am obliged to say I don't want to.


(shrugs) Dunno.


STEVEN SPIELBERG laughs to himself and throws some more grit at the camera.

Well, anyway, we're going. NOW!


Do you see Dakota Fanning's about as tall as him?

Do you mind? I'm trying to craft a realistic-and-gritty war film.

THE AUDIENCE: long shots, you can't tell who's carrying who. Hey! What's this in my popcorn?

Grit. Everything must be gritty.

There are LOTS of PEOPLE RUNNING. Lots of PEOPLE DYING. More PEOPLE DIE in many various and HORRIBLE WAYS. TOM CRUISE crawls through MUD as people DIE around him.

(breathless) We... have to... save Private Ryan...


(breathless) We... have to... get to Boston... NOW!

More PEOPLE DIE everywhere. THE AUDIENCE slowly becomes IMMUNE to it.
Suddenly TOM CRUISE runs into TIM ROBBINS.

Hi! Come in my house! I've got plenty of food and water!

PSST! Tim! Play it like the Republicans are outside.

(eye twitching) I've got a plan... oh yes... I'm going to kill them all and then molest Dakota Fanning.

TOM CRUISE kills TIM ROBBINS because he is AN EVERYMAN WHO WILL DO ANYTHING TO PROTECT HIS KIDS. And also because he actually hasn't DONE ANYTHING DRAMATIC in this film at all.

And then the ALIENS DIE.


It's in the original book. Oh yes. Gritty.

They die, susceptible to our bacteria.

Oh. Er. Um. Well, god help us all if they ever come back with some Beechams Cold and Flu...


(for Ron Hilton)

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Fascinating Facts! Barbra Streisand

Today, we examine that icon, songstress, actress and eBay-addict, Barbra 'Call me Ms' Streisand!

Barbra was born on 24th April 1942 in Brooklyn, the daughter of a cotton mill and a coal mine. She grew up an Unorthodox Jew until someone turned her Torah the right way up in class.

While we all know Ms Streisand's real name is Melvin Super, not many people know how Babs picked her stage name. It actually comes from her first ever gig appraisal, where she tearfully took the each letters of the harsh review 'drab artisan, banjo arse' and rearranged it to form 'Barbara Joan Streisand' to remind herself she must do better. And lose a little off her bum.

She dropped the second 'a' in 'Barbara' when her car went over a bump.

Ms Streisand has had an extemporary career in film, to whit several of Babs' classic films have gone on to rouse several pornographic versions. These are, in no particular order, 'The Thighs of Laura Mars', 'Up The Dirtbox', 'A Star is Porn' and the water-sport themed classic, 'On A Clear Day You Can Wee Forever'.

At great expense, realistic-looking prosthetic eyes had to be created for Kris Kristofferson for the kissing scene in 'A Star Is Born'. These were placed over his real eyes to protect them from Babs' prodigious nose when she leant in for the kill.

It is impossible for Barbra Streisand and Barry Manilow ever to meet face-to-face. This is because she is allergic to pianos.

Barbra can hold a note so high and so long that the dolphins have secretly proclaimed her as their queen. Her month-long vanishings can now be attributed to her making public appearances off the Great Barrier Reef to open fishy supermarkets and do the dolphin's TV Christmas address, and also explains why she always flips tuna up into her mouth at dinner parties. And why she claps like a seal.

Barbra is hard as nails, and been implicated in several gangland executions. Babs is also the second highest-selling artist ever, after Elvis Presley. Elvis Presley is dead.

When she and Neil Diamond had the 1978 smash hit 'You Don't Bring Me Flowers' it was not the first time they had played together. They had, in fact, accidentally duetted in the bathroom half-hour before, both favouring the fart-trumpet as their instrument of choice after coincidentally having curry the night before. As usual, Barbra held a note so high and so long that the porcelain shattered, ruining her tights.

Barbra Streisand has started selling her blood in bottles. It is called mescaline.

Barbra is ageless and deathless and will never retire, but secretly plans to go live in The Oval Office when her work in stage and screen is done. She has drawn up plans that show her bed to be under the Roosevelt Desk, with a shower cubicle installed in that little passage between there and CJ's office.

Barbara Streisand secretly wants a coat made of 101 Dalmatians.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Unfortunate Moments of My Life #3194

Being a gentleman of a hairier persuasion, I'm sure you've figured that certain areas must be bush-wacked on a regular juncture lest I get hunted down as a sasquatch each time I went to the gym. Thankfully, more permanent methods have since been taken to the stretch of lawn that was my back. But prior to that industrial lasering, I did Immac quite regularly.

So. T'was the night before the Work's Christmas Party some years ago. As part of a sketch I knew I'd have to drop my trousers with all appropriate hilarity. As a safe bet, I thought I'd better mow my back as well in case that got an airing for an encore, and slathered up the whole area with depilatory cream and got in the bath.

Now I do love a good bath, usually replete with foam and a rubber duckie. It's a perfect way to relax. So while I was day-dreaming of getting tipsy and staggering against some of my male work colleagues and muttering 'You don't need to phone your wife... no-one (hic) knows what a man wants more than another man...' I blissfully slid down into the bath. Unbeknownst to me, in lowering myself so I'd scraped a swathe of hair remover off my back and it was currently resting on the rim of the tub.

I still didn't realise this when I laid my head backwards in a sigh of bath-time bliss. That I was actually resting the back of my head into a clump of hair removal cream.

Oh yes.

In fact I didn't realise until I dried my hair, and the whole of the back of my hair-do fell off. I had to go to the work's Christmas event the following day with a huge circle of bald in the back of my head. And let me tell you, that took a lot of lying to cover...

Friday, December 02, 2005

My Christmas Present

Oh yes, I'm sure I'm right at the tippy-top of all your lists when it comes to buying Christmas presents. But what do you get a refined Gentleman That's Good With Colours-about-town when clearly he's had the world at his finger tips? And on more than a couple of occasions, on the tip of his tongue?

Well, fret no more, my lovely people! For I have found this diabolical happening - a Girls Aloud tribute band, hilariously called 'Girls Alouder'! As if the real thing wasn't cheap enough, this very site's worshipped group have got a scraped-together homage with even worse roots than them! Who'd have thought!

Oh god I love tribute acts. I recall the horror that was 'Zig-A-Zig-Ah', a Spice Girls homage I saw in a club some years back. Five middle-aged women with flabby upper arms stomping their way through the repertoire, with barely a passing resemblance to the Spices between them. Most of the club looked on, open-mouthed.

"Would you like another hit?" asked the apparent Geri after three ghastly tracks.

"No!" cried someone at the back of the crowd.

"Well, tough," she said, rolling up her sleeves. "We've been booked for the hour." And the backing track struck up once more.

"Make the bad noise end!" hollered someone else as they started to take against '2 Become 1'.

Ironically, their next song after was the number 2 classic, 'Stop'. They still didn't take the hint.

Crayola Update

Tonight I shall be rubbing something else over my naked body, for I decided to give the crayons to a colleague who has a lovely little girl. She draws pictures with such concentration, she pokes her tongue out the side of her mouth when she's trying not to outside the lines.

There. One good deed done today - that'll get me into heaven! Ignoring the fact that they weren't mine to give away, he's now guilty of accepting stolen goods, and that I once ran over a kitten. With a lawn mower.